On Hanging Up The Hooks

Here I’m sailing on a raft made of stolen planks and oars.
The ocean thumps,
the sun squeezes sweat out my pores,
and I am searching for you.
You are my compass, my star at Cosmic north.
A drawn memory of toasting to better days,
you are.
Ahead, with one running leg,
I stumble to the helm,
call out to my men,
“She is a pretty one, boys,
and will fetch a high prize.”

The cheers are filtered
by the brim of my hat
and that crawing parrot on my shoulder,
whispering your taste,
tracing the shape of your face on my cheek
and I wish,
oh I wish, that you were boxed,
left at my door,
locked for only me.

But I wait and will continue
for when the catch is as rich in substance
as you,
lost beside the ocean
waiting to be dug up and claimed,
I would cross all seven seas
to meet you on that beach,
give away my stolen planks,
and let the bird fly free.

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